All the Kings Horses
by Queen of Kaos
Summary: No one understands Kirsten's alcoholism better than Ryan. But is he helping her through it, or just making it worse?
1. He Didn't Have To

Ryan didn't have to do it, any of it. He didn't have to hold her hair back when she vomited or carry her to bed when she passed out. He didn't have to draw the curtains or place aspirin on the bedside table to help curb her hangover in the morning. He didn't have to clean the vodka off the walls when she erupted in a spontaneous rage or wash the urine out of her sheets when she didn't realize that she needed to get up in the night. He didn't have to lie to Sandy, who had moved out of the house a month ago. He didn't have to make up excuses for Seth, who was trying his best to pretend that he didn't notice what was going on. He didn't have to shrug off her co-workers, who called to find out why she hadn't come to work for a couple of days in a row. He didn't have to. He chose to.

Because that's what good sons do. Because that's what his mother had told him when he put her to bed after a good bender. Because those were the only moments when she actually told him that she was proud of him. Because he couldn't change her, he could only make her own decisions more comfortable. Because he didn't know any better. Because he'd never had a mom who wasn't an alcoholic.

"Ryan?" Kirsten's tired voice invaded his thoughts as he tried to read. The summer was getting longer by the day, the tension mounting in the house all the time. He looked up and she nodded toward the main house. "Dinner's ready." And she retreated without meeting his eye.

She never looked at him, certainly never thanked him for all he did for her. She didn't know how many times he had stopped Seth from finding her passed out in the living room or by the pool. She didn't know how many times he had cleaned up the messes she didn't know she'd made. She didn't know, and Ryan didn't need to tell her. He didn't care if she ever returned the favors. He didn't do it for the praise anymore. He did it because if he didn't, who would?

Dinner was long and uncomfortable, as had become the custom since Sandy left. There was little-to-no conversation, and sometimes Ryan wondered why they bothered to eat together at all. Even Seth had grown uncharacteristically silent in the wake of his parents' separation. There was nothing left to say - they were at an impasse. Kirsten refused to admit that she had a problem, and Sandy refused to come home until she did. And the boys were left to balance the delicate line between them.

"So, Seth," Kirsten cleared her throat, her voice devoid of any warmth. "Are you and Summer doing anything this weekend?"

Seth averted his eyes to his plate and shook his head. "No. Dad's taking me to LA this weekend. I told you that already."

Her voice stretched thinner as she blinked and then spoke again. "And what about you, Ryan? Are you going to LA?"

"Ah, no," he answered, looking toward her to find her staring at the centerpiece and carefully chewing the bite of lettuce in her mouth. "I think Marissa and I are gonna hang around, watch some movies. Take it easy." He wanted to add that he had to keep an eye on her, but bit his tongue. Her eyes said she understood his motives anyway.

"Are you guys coming with us tonight? The Bait Shop? Summer's been begging to go all week - I guess there's some Eruo-rock thing goin' on?" Seth asked, his eyes penetrating his friend's gaze, begging for an escape from the pseudo-conversation with his mom. It was clear that he was done with her as she lifted her wine glass to her lips again.

With a nod, Ryan took another bite of his dinner and tried on his best smile. He knew he couldn't hang around all the time, keeping an eye on her without raising a plethora of unanswerable questions. They weren't his answers to give, his secrets to spill. And until she gave the "go ahead," he would keep them all to himself. He didn't have to. But he would.


	2. A Good Night

All in all, The Bait Shop had been good for him. Seth had snapped out of his funk almost as soon as they were out of the house, spending his evening mocking Summer's excitement over her love for the band, who looked and sounded like something straight out of 1985. The girls had been in rare form, giggling and screaming for the lead singer, and trading barbs with their boyfriends in old-school fashion. Ryan found himself having more fun than he could remember in a long time, and managing not to feel guilty about it. That was the miracle of the evening.

But all good things come to an end, and by the time they got home, all was as it had been. Seth headed straight from the front door to his bedroom without so much as a glance around for his mom, leaving Ryan to find her. She was stretched out on the living room couch, a pool of vodka on the floor beside her, littered with glass shards from the bottle she had dropped. Sometimes he wondered if he mopped up more than she drank.

Lifting her semi-conscious form into his arms, he started for the stairs to her room. She stirred and shifted, resting her head against his shoulder. "I didn't mean to," she whined quietly.

Ryan nodded. "I know," he whispered, kicking the door open and then shut behind him. He laid her on the far said of the bed and then carefully turned down the sheets on the near side. Picking her up again, he rested her head gently against the pillow and then pulled the blankets up around her. With a kiss to the forehead, he started to stand.

But she held on to his shirt and opened her eyes slightly. "Don't leave me," she pleaded.

Tomorrow she would forget that she had ever made the request, but he wouldn't. He never did. He would sit on the edge of the bed, his arm around her, promising her that the demons wouldn't take her soul in her sleep. But inside, he knew that they already had. These were the moments when he knew that Sandy was right, that she needed help he couldn't give her. And while he knew he couldn't be everything, he could be something, and that had to be enough. She had given him so much - a home, a family, a purpose - and this was all he had in return.

He had hit people before, hard enough to crack the skin on his own knuckles and wrench his shoulder out of socket. But his arms never hurt so bad as they did after nights of rocking her to sleep. And he had been hit before, hard enough to knock his wind out and make breathing hard for days. But his chest never ached so bad as it did after nights of crying himself to sleep over her. He had been broken before, bad enough to seemingly stop the earth on its axis and put an end to his trust in people all together. But he had never been shattered so badly as he was watching her stumble through life, a shell of the woman he had once admired for her strength and courage. Sometimes he hurt so badly that he wasn't sure he could ever be put back together again.

When her breathing had steadied and she had loosened her grip on his hand, he stood and moved toward the windows, making sure the drapes were firmly shut. He then moved to her bathroom, took four pills out of the aspirin bottle, filled a tumbler with water, and laid the medication on her bedside table. Glancing at the clock, he sighed and headed downstairs. After cleaning up the mess in the living room, it was only three forty-five.

It had been a good night, after all.


	3. No More Choices

He never wondered about the stains in her sheets anymore. Urine, blood, vomit, and alcohol – he had seen it all. He knew exactly what to use to get them out without ruining the patterns on the expensive fabrics. He knew how to make sure they were smelling April Fresh even after several washings in industrial strength detergents. And when it didn't work, when they wouldn't come clean, he knew where to get a new set before she realized the old ones were missing. He had become the master of the cover up.

At least when it came to fabric, tile, drywall, and carpet. He found he still lacked in the areas of lying to his family. Seth knew more than he would ever let on – how could he not? He slept across the hall from her, no doubt falling asleep to the rhythm of her agonizing sobs. And Sandy was constantly asking how everything was at home, his eyes clearly telling Ryan that he didn't believe his answers of "fine."

"Hey, Ryan," Sandy's voice broke his thoughts as he entered the laundry room, a perplexed look on his face. "What are you doing?"

Ryan looked at the dirty sheet in his hand and quickly dropped it into the washer. He could always pull it out later, when Sandy was gone. Hopefully it wouldn't be too late to apply a stain remover to the vomit spots. "Um, I was just putting some laundry in," he said, nervous energy jumping off of him in waves.

Sandy's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Rosa does the laundry, doesn't she?" he asked, looking around the room. But he dropped the subject, much to Ryan's relief. "Hey, so I wanted to talk to you and Seth about something this weekend, but he said you're not going with us?"

Clearing his throat, Ryan followed Sandy out of the laundry room and through the house, to the back yard. "Um, Marissa and I are gonna hang out, I think. We haven't had much time to do anything lately."

There was an awkward silence as Sandy looked over the pool and the patio. He seemed as though he were searching for something, and Ryan felt his skin growing hot. Had he forgotten something? Was everything cleaned sufficiently? If anyone would spot his error, it was Sandy. "You don't have school," the older man said finally. "What takin' up so much of your time?"

Ryan was at a loss. And if there was anything he hated most in the world, it was being caught off guard. "Um," he stuttered.

"Look, Ryan," Sandy's voice lowered as he sat in the chair. "I know you've been covering for Kirsten," he said firmly. Ryan said nothing, and didn't move. With a heavy sigh, Sandy leaned on the patio table and gave his "son" a pleading look. "What I don't know is why." Ryan shrugged. "After everything you went through with your mother, I would think you would know it's not helping anything."

Ryan stared out over the water and wished he were invisible. He wished that he wasn't having this conversation. He wished that Sandy would just understand, that he wouldn't expect an answer. He wished someone would just trust his judgment. And he wished, more than anything, that he knew how to talk about his feelings, how to let someone know how scared he was. Instead, he said nothing.

"I can talk until I'm blue in the face, but she's not ready to listen to me yet," Sandy spoke again.

Continuing to watch the pool, Ryan finally found his voice. "It's her life," he said.

"True, but her choices are affecting all of us. Me. You. Seth. All of us," his voice started to rise just a little.

"I'm fine," Ryan responded through gritted teeth. He knew where this conversation was headed and he wasn't so sure he wanted to be along for the ride.

"I want you and Seth to move in with me," Sandy said, leaning back in the chair. Ryan just shook his head. "It will show her that we mean business, that we all want her to get help," he added.

And Ryan snapped. "How in the hell do you expect leaving her to help anything? What makes you think that abandoning her is going to make her feel loved?" He knew that he was throwing a childish tantrum, but he had to release the pressure in his head, and he had to do it immediately. "It's not going to help anything. Shit, Sandy. If anything, it's going to shove her further into the damn bottle. It'll kill her."

The sob escaped his throat before he could stop it, but he swallowed hard and moved away before Sandy could reach him with an outstretched hand. "Ryan, she needs to know that she has to make a choice. She doesn't want to lose her family," he said softly.

"It doesn't matter what she wants anymore. She doesn't have control of her desires," he laughed cynically and cross his arms tightly around his chest. "It tells her what to think, what to want, how to act. She doesn't get to decide for herself anymore."

Sandy's voice was quiet when he spoke again. "I know this is hard for you, Ryan."

He turned his blue eyes to the man on his left, shaking his head. "No, you don't. You don't know anything about it. I'm not asking her to choose, Sandy," he turned toward the pool house, his steps long and deliberate.

They could all pretend to understand what he was feeling, but they never would. They would never understand that he couldn't ask her to choose. Because he couldn't bear the thought of another mom choosing alcohol over him.


	4. Just the Girlfriend

Sometimes he hated Marissa. He hated her for thinking that everything revolved around her. He hated her for continually asking him what was wrong, and why he wouldn't tell her about it. He hated her for not just knowing. But, most of all, he hated himself for not being able to tell her.

"Are you even listening to me?" she asked as he tried his best to concentrate on the video game before him. He said nothing, and she rested her chin on his shoulder. "Kirsten's not going to be home for, like, three hours. Seth is out with Summer. We're all alone," she whispered, wrapping her lips around his earlobe.

Ryan shrugged her off, threw his controller down, and stood. "Fine. Let's go do something then," he said.

She sat back, a hurt expression on her face. He hated her for making him feel guilty. "Did I do something to piss you off?"

Shaking his head, he went to the refrigerator and withdrew a bottle of water. "I'm just really tired," he said. It wasn't a complete lie. Things were only getting worse with Kirsten, and he hadn't gotten to bed until long after the sun had come up.

Marissa nodded, pulling her knees up to her chest. "Maybe you should just sleep?"

He shrugged and sank to the bed. He didn't want to – he knew that wasn't a very exciting date – but his body was begging him to take the offer. "Are you gonna stay with me?" More than he hated her questions, he hated the thought of being alone. Spending so much time caring for someone else left him longing for someone to watch after him. Or maybe that was the sleep deprivation talking.

With a shrug of her own, she stood and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jeans. "I don't know if you even want me around anymore."

He mustered all of the sincerity he could feel. It wasn't her fault, and he knew that. It didn't change anything. "I do." He couldn't explain it any further. He just needed her to understand. He needed her to get him, to get what he was saying without him having to say it. He needed her to be something that he wasn't sure she could be.

Her shoulders sagged and she moved only slightly closer to the bed. "You know you can tell me what's going on, right?" He didn't answer, only looked at her shoes. The pain in her eyes was more than he could take. "Why do you not trust me with this? With the whole Kirsten thing?"

"It's not about trusting you, Marissa." He sighed and laid back on the bed, becoming inexplicably interested in the ceiling. "It's just," he stopped. "It's too complicated," he said sadly.

"We've been together for almost a year, Ryan. I mean, you guys are practically like," she started to argue.

Ryan pinched his eyes shut and shook his head. "No," he stopped her without sitting up. "It doesn't matter how close we get, or how much I love you, Marissa. At the end of the day, she's my family." He struggled to pull himself up and glared at her firmly. "You're just my girlfriend."

The words hung in the air and he knew that he had hurt her. But it was better that way. It was better for her, in the long run. She didn't have to deal with all of his bull shit anymore, all of the paranoia and the worry. She could move on with someone better equipped to handle emotion pressure, someone who was willing to let her in to his life. He wasn't that guy – probably never would be.

She bit her lip and shook her head. "I have tried, Ryan, to be everything and anything that you needed me to be. And I swore that I wasn't going to let you push me away, no matter how hard you tried."

He shrugged and put on his best "stoic" face. "I guess this is your big test then, huh?" There was another long silence, awkward and painful. Unspoken pleas and unspilled tears passed between their averted gazes. His hand nearly moved of its own accord, reaching out for her, but he pushed it down. And his throat ached to beg her not to leave, but he swallowed the urge forcefully.

After a deep breath, she took her purse from the bedside table. "You need your sleep," was all she said, as she turned the door and exited.

He watched her until she disappeared around the side of the house and then laid back against the pillow. Was it worth it? Seth had practically stopped talking to him. Sandy was disappointed in his determination to go down with the ship. And now he had sent away the woman that he loved. And for what? The chance to drive Kirsten further into her hole of dependence and depression? Was anything worth it anymore?


	5. Nursery Rhymes and Fairy Tales

When he was younger, Ryan had always loved the nursery rhyme "Humpty Dumpty." He felt some sort of karmic connection with the fallen hero. The way that Humpty was just sitting on the wall, not a care in the world. Ryan had felt like that once, like nothing could knock him down. But one strong wind, one inexplicable outside force, and he was tumbling to the ground, filled with terror and confusion, shattered beyond repair.

He remembered a time when he could stare at that picture for hours, the one of the broken Humpty Dumpty, and wish that he had the answer. He wished that he knew how to put the crushed character, and himself, back together, back on the wall. But if all the king's horses and men couldn't fix Mr. Dumpty, no one could ever put him back together, either.

He knew he shouldn't be there, nursing a beer in some dive alone. He knew that alcohol wouldn't solve his problems, or even help him escape them. He knew that being there only made him one more link in the cycle of addiction and depression. But he was tired of caring. He was tired of worrying. And he was tired of pretending.

Seth had moved in with Sandy, after tearfully begging him to come along. And he almost had. They would never know how close he had been to packing up and tagging along with the other men. Maybe they were right. Maybe the only way to help Kirsten was to show her that she couldn't have the perfect family and the addiction. Maybe they all had to be strong. But he wasn't. He could fake tough, but strength was a trait he no longer possessed.

"Hey, Stranger," a voice sounded from behind him.

Ryan turned and offered a half-smile. "Summer," he said as she perched herself onto the stool beside him. She ordered a club soda and drank a few sips before he spoke again. "What are you doing here?"

She shrugged and swiveled on the seat to face him. "I was on my way home from Coop's and I saw your car outside," she said. "Thought you might not wanna drink alone."

He appreciated the gesture, but doubted the motive. She was only going to tell him something he didn't want to hear. They always told him something he didn't want to hear. "Look," he decided to cut her off at the pass. "If you're here to tell me how I'm just fucking everything up, save it," he warned.

She shrugged again. "I'm not here to tell you anything. You know what you're doing, right? I mean, more than any of us, you know what you're doing," she turned back toward the bar, speaking to it as though she had a better chance of getting a response. He knew she probably did. "You've done this thing before, right? But the way I see it? That didn't turn out so well, did it?"

"Summer," he warned with a low growl that was meant to scare her.

But he forgot that Summer Roberts did not scare so easily. She turned her gaze back to his face, meeting him with a firm look that said she wasn't done and she wouldn't go away until she was. "I know that this is hard for you –"

"No, you don't. You don't know shit," he spat, growing more irritated.

"Don't I?" she challenged.

Ryan was tired of it all, and he was really tired of her. "No, you don't. Nobody does. You keep saying that you know, but you don't know." None of them did. They didn't know what it was like to wake up in the morning and wonder if she would. They didn't know what it was like to come home and wonder if this was going to be the time he found her dead instead of just passed out.

"I know you feel guilty," she whispered.

He turned. "Guilty? For what?" He wanted to scoff, but it was too close to the truth. And he was now convinced that the truth was good for no one.

"That not one, but two of your moms have drinking problems. You keep telling yourself that if you do better, if you clean it and cover it up, that they'll stop. You think that you can fix them. And the longer it goes on, the worse it gets, the more guilty you feel for not being enough." She put her hand on his arm and held it there until he met her eye. "I know, Ryan."

She did. He could see it in her eyes, something deeper than words, more than any of them had given him in months. She knew everything that he had wished someone would know. "Twice," he whispered sadly. "It's happened twice."

Nodding, she sipped at her drink. She didn't speak, knowing that he had to do the talking, but she took note of the bottle in front of him. It was less than half-empty. He wasn't trying to get drunk, he didn't want to. He just didn't know how else to cope, how else to solve the problems. This was all he'd ever been shown.

Opening up to her seemed easy for Ryan. If she already understood how he felt, then it didn't matter if he explained it with the right words or not, she would get it. "It's like, I know it's crazy, but I feel like I need this." He took another drink and then turned toward her. "I've been here for almost two years, Summer. Everyone still knows me as the kid from Chino, ya know? I love the Cohens, I do, but I never forget that this isn't mine. It's like, I spend most of my time just waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"And now it has," she responded with the raise of an eyebrow. She knew how he felt, but confiding all of her mother/step-mother problems seemed inappropriate. This was about him. And he was still her boyfriend's brother.

Ryan didn't answer, only stared at the label on his bottle. His fingers went to it of their own volition, peeling at the wet paper as he spoke. "This is what I know. I still don't know which spoon to use for soup at some dinner party, but I know how to do this. I know how to take care of her." Another silence followed. "I can't leave her," he finally said.

Summer looked at the new glass that the bartender sat in front of her. There were a million responses on the tip of her tongue, but none seemed to come out. "But, Ryan," she started.

"Say what you want about whatever you think she needs," he interrupted. "But since the day she let me into her house, she has never turned her back on me. I can't do it to her."

Determined to let him figure it out on his own, she reached into her purse and grabbed her wallet. Opening it, her eyes fell on a photograph. "Sandy never turned his back on you, either, Ryan," she pointed out.

It was true. Sandy, moreso than Kirsten, had always done what was best for him. He had always been the father that Ryan had never known growing up. He was the rock, the one that he always knew he could count on, no matter what was happening. Sandy's love was unconditional, and Ryan had spat on it, turned it away without a second though. He had no argument for that.

Summer tossed the cash for her tab on the bar and leaned on her elbow. "I don't want you to take this the wrong way or anything," she sighed and stood. "But you and Kirsten both have some pretty serious issues that you've never confronted. She's hiding hers in a bottle, but you're hiding yours in her. Neither one of you will ever get better if you don't stop running scared and face some of this shit head on."

And she was gone. Without a good-bye, she just disappeared. Ryan felt like his chest was on fire. Summer was one hundred percent right. He had been living in a fairy tale since he moved to Newport, and he still was. Dreaming of the day when he would wake up, come into the kitchen, find Sandy and Seth back home, and everyone happy – that was his delusion. It was never going to get better, they were going to find peace, until they did something about it. Until one of them took the first step toward healing. And, as he paid his tab and left his half-empty bottle on the bar, he determined that he was going to be the one that stepped first.


	6. The Best Day Ever

Mornings were always his quiet time. He came in for breakfast around nine – if Kirsten was home, she was still in bed. And if she was going to work, then she was already gone. He had grown accustomed to enjoying a bagel and orange juice, sometimes coffee, prepping himself for the day ahead. He was finding it was the only chosen part of his routine, the only thing that he did for himself anymore. And as simple an act as it was, he needed it.

By sunrise, he was determined to tell Kirsten exactly what Summer had told him the night before. They both needed help, something that they couldn't give each other. He was going to tell her that he intended to get some help, even if that meant he had to move in with Seth and Sandy for awhile. He had rehearsed and committed to memory an entire script, down to the last detail. If he didn't look her in the eye, and he remembered that this was the best thing he could possibly do for both of them, everything would be fine. He could do this. He had to do this.

But then, just like everything else in his life, the plan changed. When he opened the glass door to the kitchen, he found Kirsten sipping coffee and reading a newspaper, dressed in jeans and a tank top, her hair in a ponytail. She turned to him and she smiled. She let their eyes meet, and she smiled directly at him. It was enough to nearly knock him backwards. "Morning, Sweetie," she winked, going back to her reading.

Ryan gave a faint wave. Who was this woman? Why wasn't she in a bathrobe, with stringy hair, barely mumbling something about going back to bed? Why wasn't she angrily ranting about how Sandy had destroyed her marriage and stolen her son? Why wasn't she screaming in frustration at some associate on the phone? Why was she looking at him like that – like she was happy to see him? She wasn't supposed to be acknowledging him.

His entire plan hinged on her not knowing he was around, not even caring whether he stayed or went. This Kirsten, the one who was smiling at him and offering him half of her bagel, did not fit into the plan. This Kirsten didn't show up often, and Ryan knew he couldn't run her off before she was ready to go.

"So, it's Sunday," she stated, as though he didn't know that. It was far more likely that she hadn't known that, until opening her paper that morning. "There is supposed to be this great jazz festival down at the pier today." She shut the newspaper and pushed it to the side, leaning against the counter as he rested his weight on the opposite side. He was truly afraid that he might fall over if he didn't lean on something. "I thought maybe we could go down there? You could invite Marissa if you want. We haven't had much fun around here lately," she grinned.

It was an old smile, the kind she used to give him when they were sharing knowing looks about Seth and Sandy's jokes – it was genuine. It was the look he had longed for over the last few months. It was the look that said they were going to be okay, no matter what they went through. It was the look that hypnotized him into a false sense of security and made him forget everything he was going to say.

"That'd be great," he agreed. Maybe he could still work the conversation in – and maybe she would really listen. Maybe this was her way of telling him that she had realized the same things he had. Maybe this was the way they found common ground and healing. Maybe he was wishing for the impossible, but he didn't care. Kirsten was offering to spend time with him. And she appeared, at least, to be sober. Nothing else mattered.

"Great," she nodded with a determined smile and pushed the cordless phone toward him. "Why don't you call Marissa, and I will go get the digital camera. Meet me at the car in five?"

Ryan's shoulders fell slightly. "I don't know if Marissa's really gonna wanna," he started and then stopped. He didn't feel like talking about his relationship with Marissa at the moment. He didn't feel like talking about anything that would wipe that smile off of Kirsten's face. "Um, maybe we can just do this by ourselves?"

She turned her head and studied his face, as if looking for the answers to a million of her own questions. And then she nodded. "I'd like that," she said and headed toward the stairs.

The words rang in his head long after she was gone. She, the closest thing he'd had to a mom in years, said that she would like to spend a day with just him. A whole day. If the entire world crashed around him at midnight, if the carriage turned back into a pumpkin and the horses turned to mice, he didn't care. He was going to spend a day with his mom, and it was going to be the best day ever.


	7. Dreaming of the Huxtables

He once told Sandy that he didn't believe in dreams, that people where he came from couldn't afford to. It had been a lie. Ryan had a dream, an 80's sitcom kind of dream. Before he moved to Newport, he and Theresa would watch The Cosby Show on Nick-at-Night while her mom was at work, and they would always laugh about how people like the Huxtables didn't exist in the real world, how they wouldn't last five minutes in Chino. Kids who had parents who actually did stuff for them? Cared about them? What a joke that was.

But he would always go home and lull himself to sleep with dreams of a family that was loving and accepting of all its members. He would dream of a place where he could talk about his problems with parents who loved him and wanted what was best for him. He would dream of a home with no fear of abuse or neglect. He would dream of a sitcom family until he fell asleep with a smile.

He wanted a mom who noticed when he failed a class he was supposed to be good in. He wanted a mom who made a big deal out of things like his first kiss and his driver's license. He wanted a mom who made dinner for him and his girlfriend and shared all kinds of interests and laughs with the girl he liked. Instead, he got the mom who didn't even know what he was good. He got the mom was too busy kissing random, married men and drinking away her license to realize those milestones in his life. He got the mom who greeted all of his female friends with ahearty, "You better not fuck his life up."

He wondered, in those old dreams, what a kid had to do to end up with parents like Cliff and Claire. To what god did they pray in order to end up with that kind of life? He stopped just short of saying any prayers of his own, though. He feared the disappointment of not getting an answer more than the stinging slaps his mother would deliver to his cheek for no reason. Still, walking around the pier with Kirsten, talking about everything from Journey music to the best architectural colleges, made him wonder if someone up there had heard his thoughts after all.

"So," Kirsten spoke as they left the concert pavilion and walked in the direction of the car. "What's going on with you and Marissa?"

A fleeting feeling of guilt washed over Ryan as he realized he hadn't given his girlfriend much thought over the last six hours. There had been a time when she dominated every waking second of his day, but this was not one of those. He just shrugged. "I don't know."

Kirsten sucked iced tea through the straw of a huge Styrofoam cup and stuffed her free hand into her pocket. "Well, something is up. I haven't seen her around the house and you're not talking about her. Did something happen?"

You happened, he wanted to accuse, but instead cleared his throat and put his hands deep into his own pockets. "Um, it's kinda," he stopped and turned, his nose scrunched. "It's kind of a long story."

"Well, then let's get some dinner and sit down somewhere," she suggested, noting the hesitant way he was watching his feet while he walked. "Do you not wanna talk about it?"

He wanted to, more than anything. He wanted to talk about it with her. But he wasn't used to this kind of thing. He didn't know where to start, or how. "No, I do. I just. . . I don't know," he stopped talking and inwardly kicked himself. Maybe the problem wasn't that Ryan never had anyone to listen. Maybe the problem was that he never said anything. "I'm not good at talking about stuff."

The blush in his cheeks warmed Kirsten's heart. She reached out and touched his arm, offering him a sympathetic grin when he glanced at her. "I'm not either," she assured him. "But I'm kinda like your mom, now, right? And you can't say anything that's gonna make me love you any less, Ryan, so that's gotta take some of the pressure off, right?"

His grin stretched across his face and he nodded. Never in his life had anyone said anything to him that meant more than that statement did. Never had a few small words made him feel like those did. "Where do you want to eat?" he asked, looking at all the small restaurants along the boardwalk.

Kirsten followed his gaze around and then turned back to him. "Um, I don't care. You pick. I gotta find a bathroom, though." She held up her cup of tea and shook it to show that she had nearly finished all forty-four ounces. "I'll be right back."

Ryan leaned against the railing behind him and turned his face toward the sun. Was it his imagination or was it shinning a little brighter today than it had of late? Nothing - not even talk about his dying relationship with Marissa - could kill his buzz now. Nothing.

"Hey, man," Seth's voice interrupted his thoughts.

Ryan opened his eyes and smiled at his friend, who was eyeing him in slight confusion. "Hey. What are you doing here?"

Seth looked over his shoulder and then back. "Summer wanted to hang at the jazz thing," he explained. "But she had to pee, so. . ." his voice trailed as he hung his head and studied the ground.

Ryan didn't know what to say. Usually, with Seth, it didn't matter. Usually, Seth had plenty to say for both of them. But not this day. "I'm here with your mom," Ryan said dumbly.

Nodding, Seth moved to Ryan's side and rested his elbows on the railing. "I know. I saw you guys over at the pavilion."

"Why didn't you come say "hi"? I know she would love to see you, man," Ryan spoke honestly.

But Seth wasn't interested. "I don't really wanna see her right now." He grew quiet again and then turned his face toward the sun, as he had watched Ryan do moments ago. It didn't feel bright or warm to him. Not much did anymore. "I'm really scared, Ryan," he blurted.

"Of what?" Ryan didn't have to ask. He knew.

"I know you don't want to hear me out, but could you just try? For, like, two minutes?" Seth pleaded. There had to be a piece of his old friend there, one that would give him a chance to unburden his soul. Ryan nodded. "Okay, here's the thing. She's my mom, too, man. And I know we don't agree on the best way to help her, but I think we both want, or don't want, the same thing."

He stopped and Ryan wondered what he was supposed to say. For once, he didn't know where a conversation concerning Kirsten was headed. "And what's that?" he prompted.

"I don't want to lose her," Seth said softly. "And I don't know what's going to happen to her, but I think it cold be bad, if she doesn't get some help. It's not like you just outgrow this, right?" He sounded as though he really didn't know the answer to that question. "I don't know about this stuff, man, not like you do. But I know her. And I know that she will go to great lengths to prove a point when she thinks she's right."

He had saved her countless times, and now Ryan was wishing that she would get out of the bathroom and return the favor. He had done a pretty good job of forgetting the problems for most of the day. Now Seth was bringing everything he already knew back to the forefront of his mind, and he didn't want it there. He liked it in the back of his memory, like a nightmare he'd had once when he was little.

"When I was six," Seth spoke again, watching a bug on the boardwalk moving toward his feet, "we were at this grocery store in Berkley, where we used to live. And I remember that I wanted some pixie stix. Do you remember those?" Ryan nodded. "I wanted them so bad, and she said that I couldn't have them, that they were pure sugar and they weren't good for me. I threw this huge tantrum, and she just kept shopping - she totally ignored me completely. So I tried holding my breath, thought that would help me get my way. And do you know what she did, man?"

He had no idea. "Gave in?" he guessed.

Shaking his head, Seth gave a slight nostalgic chuckle. "She let me pass out. Right there in the cart, she let me pass out for, like, a few seconds. And when it was all over, I had no pixie stix and a hellacious headache." He turned and squinted against the sun while he focused on his friend's face. "I told her that I didn't like her that day, that she was the worst mom ever. And she told me that I didn't have to like her. She was still my mom and it was her job to make sure that I stayed healthy and safe, even if I didn't want to."

He stopped his story abruptly and Ryan looked up to see Kirsten and Summer walking toward them. The women were smiling and Seth offered his mom a polite wave before patting Ryan on the back and walking off, his arm around Summer's shoulder.

Ryan stood dazed, his mind suddenly filling with words from his past, his mother's words. "Truth is irrelevant, Ry. It doesn't matter what you tell people. They believe what they want, what makes them feel better, anyway." He didn't want Kirsten to see the tears building behind his eyes. He didn't want to tell her that he had to do everything he could to make sure she was healthy and safe. He didn't want to tell her the truth, because he didn't want to believe it.

"So, what are we eating?" she asked as he pushed off the railing and fell into step with her again.

He swallowed the tears, cleared his throat, and threw her a smile. "Um, Thai?" he suggested. When the best day ever had ended, when the other Kirsten showed up, he would be the responsible one who made tough choices and hard decisions. But for now, he was going to let her be the mom.


	8. Releasing the Pressure

He had to hand it to Marissa. She had been serious when she said she wasn't giving up on him. And she had handled it better than text book perfection. After a week of space, she had a small teddy bear delivered to his house. It wore a wife beater and held a Journey Greatest Hits album, with a note that simply said, "Track four. That's me." Track four was "Faithfully."

He had called her to say "thanks," and she told him all about her week, never asking about his. He didn't want to tell her anything, and she seemed to know that. She tip-toed around the fact that she had been hanging out with Seth and Summer, only mentioning it without ever giving him any real details. She was being the perfect girlfriend.

So when Kirsten called to say that she was going to be home late, and that he should find dinner for himself, he decided that it was time to be a better boyfriend. Marissa suggested a movie, and Ryan agreed, though he wasn't sure it was the best idea. Time in a dark, quiet theater only left him time to think. And he was starting to find his mind was the worst possible place to be.

The theater was barely half-full when they arrived, so finding a spot in the back row was easy. Marissa slid her arm under Ryan's and wove her fingers through his, resting their hands against his thigh. She leaned her head on his shoulder and whispered, "I've missed you."

He didn't know what to say. To tell her that he'd been too busy worrying about Kirsten, wondering about Sandy and Seth, and thinking about his mom to miss her only seemed cruel. But to lie seemed equally heartless. So he simply turned his head and captured her lips with his. He felt inadequate in so many areas, but this was one he could handle. He had been perfecting his "make out" skills since he was twelve, and he was confident in his abilities. Maybe Marissa couldn't make him forget all of his problems, but he could make her forget everything.

He didn't know when the movie started, but it was nearly half over before she pulled her hand out of his tee shirt and wiggled away from his grasp on her ass. With a shy smile, she pushed her hair behind her ears and let out a heavy breath. "If we don't stop now," she started.

He silenced her with a nod, put his arm around her waist, and pulled her close to his side. Her head rested on his shoulder again and Ryan tried to focus on the film before him. He had never been into "chick flicks," so he allowed his mind to wander at will. And, as always, he found his thoughts drifting to "it." The problem, as he saw it, was that he no longer thought in terms of Dawn or Kirsten, but only of the "illness."

There were certain inalienable truths involved with addiction. 1.) The addiction made the addict weak. It strong-armed them into feeling that they weren't enough to function on their own, outside of it. 2.) The weakness made the addict scared. It terrified them into doing and saying things that their sober selves would never consider. And 3.) The fear made them liars. It made them weave an elaborate web of deceit in an attempt to protect anything and everything they relied on as safe and familiar.

They lying was like a sixth sense that kicked in the moment they felt change coming. It was why his mom bought him cigarettes the day after drunkenly declaring what a worthless shit he was. It was the reason she never said anything about the condoms in his bedroom trash the day after smacking him around. It was the reason Kirsten bought him a new IPod the day after she had thrown a bottle of Absolut at his head. And it was the reason she took him to the jazz festival the day after he hadn't shown up to take care of her that night he had talked to Summer at the bar. They always knew when they'd pushed him to the edge, and they would do whatever they could to pull him back before he was gone.

"Hey," Marissa's voice interrupted his thoughts and he noticed that the credits had begun to roll. The lights were starting to come up around them, as well.

Blinking quickly, he tried to smile. But he wasn't fast enough, and Marissa wiped the tear from his cheek without a word. They exited the theater hand-in-hand, avoiding each other's eye as they headed toward her car. "You wanna go back to the pool house?" he asked when he had regained control of his emotions.

She shrugged and put her free hand into the pocket of her jacket, moving slightly closer to him as the darkness settled around them. "Maybe we should just go get some food?"

He stopped, his face twisted in confusion. "You wanna eat? Kirsten's probably not home." He let go of her hand and wrapped his arms around her waist, dropping a kiss on her neck. "We could finish what we started in there," he nodded toward the theater. Marissa didn't answer, but he could feel her body stiffen. "What?" he asked, letting her go.

Biting her lip, she winced. "I don't know."

And he found an unexpected anger bubbling up inside of him. He knew she had every right to say "no," but he didn't want to hear it. He was so damn tired of catering to everyone else's needs and desires. For once, he wanted someone to give a fleeting fucking thought about what he wanted. And Marissa, once again, would catch the brunt of his fury.

"Seemed like you knew back there," he accused. "Or was that just a tease? Get me all ready to go and then back out like you don't know how you much I want you?"

Her eyes grew wide and he watched her lip tremble, but he didn't care. He didn't even want the sex that bad, to be honest. He was just tired of being needed. He wanted to be wanted for once. If he had to manipulate her into feeling it, he would. "I wasn't trying to," she started to defend.

But he dropped his chin to his chest, mustered all the vulnerability he could find, and then met her eye, a glassy look in his. "Look, I'm sorry, okay?" She nodded. "I just," he breathed deeply and put his hands in his pockets. "I don't know. It's just a reflex, I guess. I mean, when my mom used to get all fucked up, Theresa and I would," he watched her flinch and he shook his head. It was all coming back to him, like riding a bike. Girls were so easy. "Sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

She took a step back. "We've waited a really long time, Ryan. And I just wanna know that you're in the moment with me, not thinking about Kirsten or Theresa or your mom or whatever."

He smiled and put a hand on her arm. "Marissa, I promise you that I will not be thinking about my mom." She stomped her foot slightly, as though begging him to take this seriously. "Okay, listen. There's just so much fuckin' bad shit goin' on in my life right now, with Kirsten and everything. I haven't talked to Seth. Sandy's pissed as hell at me. You're the only thing that's good, Marissa. You're the only one that's not treating me like I've completely lost my mind," he explained. He hoped he managed the blush that he was going for when he tightly wrapped his fingers around hers and then rested both of their hands on her waist. He leaned his forehead against hers. "I just wanna be as good to you as you are to me."

Her lip began to twitch, fighting a smile. He could see the impact of his compliment, and inwardly congratulated himself for still having "it." She licked her lips. "You could just thank me," she whispered, her breath tickling his chin.

Ryan placed a light kiss on her lips and then shook his head. "You know how I am with words."

She rolled her eyes and led him to the car, her hand firmly planted in his back pocket. It was nothing but a series of bad lines, but she had eaten them up. He knew it was wrong, taking advantage of her deep emotions for his own personal gain. But he also knew that it was either get laid or punch someone in the face. Somehow, he had to find some release from all of the bull shit in his mind. And this way, he wasn't hurting anyone. Not much, anyway.


	9. Absolution

If anyone had told him, back when he was growing up in Chino, that he would someday live in a beautiful pool house overlooking the ocean in Newport Beach, he would have punched them in the face being so damn retarded. But if someone had told him, when he moved into the pool house, that two years later, he would be wishing he were back in Chino? Well, he didn't know how he would have reacted. He certainly wouldn't have believed it.

But laying on the bed in Seth's room, that was exactly what he found himself wishing. After their day at the pier, Kirsten had asked him to move into the main house with her, and he had agreed. But now he felt like as much like an intruder as he ever had growing up. At least, in Chino, there had never been disappointment. He had never expected his life to get better, to be anything more than it had been. When his mom got drunk, it was just another day. When she got fired, it was inevitable. When Caleb fired Kirsten, it was just another round of the disillusionment that seemed to be forever on tap in Newport.

He stared at the ceiling, a wrinkled piece of paper in his hand as he contemplated where his life was heading. In Chino, he had become a person he didn't like. He had become a quitter. He couldn't change his family, so he quit making an effort and just tried to be like them – putting on a tough act to cover the insecurity. He couldn't change the hand life had dealt him, so he quit believing and just tried to survive. And now he was doing it again.

He spent his days wishing he could be more like Seth, just like he used to idolize Trey. And he spent his nights equally loving and hating Kirsten, just like he used to agonize over Dawn. He was using sex with Marissa to keep his mind off of everything at home, just like he used to lose himself in Theresa. And he was hating himself for all of it, just like he had his entire life.

It was time to admit defeat again, to give in to the voices who said he couldn't do any more than he had already done. But this time, it was for real. He couldn't keep running in circles, stuck in a cycle of pain and confusion. There was only one choice. It had to end, all of it.

Reaching for his cell phone, he dialed a number he knew by heart and waited. When the voice on the other end answered, he mustered all of his courage and said the words he never dreamed he would say. "I need your help."

XXXXX

"You sure you don't want me to go with you?" Sandy asked as he parked his car and stared through the windshield at the prison before them.

Ryan shook his head. This was something he had to for himself. "I'll be back," he promised, stepping out of the vehicle. "Thanks," he said through the open window before turning his back.

He stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans and gripped the paper there. He didn't know what he was going to say, or if he should even be there, but something deep inside of him said that he had to do it anyway. If he didn't start to face the fear, he would live stunted in its shadow forever, angry until it killed him.

He signed in, clipped the visitor's pass to his jacket lapel with trembling fingers, and followed the warden down the hall to a dingy room full of round tables and hard plastic chairs. He sat as far away from anyone as he could get, secluding himself in a corner. His palms had started to sweat and he knew it wasn't because of the sweltering August air. His heart was pounding in his throat as he tapped his fingers on the top of the table.

Another ten minutes passed before he looked into the eyes he dreaded more than anything in the world. The man across the table was a stranger, but the steely blue of his eyes mirrored Ryan's so exactly that the connection was undeniable. "They told me my son was here to see me," he said. With a slight chuckle, his father's shoulders shrugged. "I didn't think it was you."

"You got another son I don't know about?" Ryan asked, not trying to hide the bitter tone. He had never known this man, not really. And the warm feelings he was hoping for were nowhere to be found now that they were this close. Throwing the tattered letter onto the table, he nodded toward it and crossed his arms. "You mean what you said in there?"

His father's hands went to the paper and drew it toward his body, letting his eyes drift over the words he had penned a lifetime ago. "I wrote this five years ago," he said in disbelief. "I thought your mom must have thrown it out before you saw it." The tenderness in the older Atwood's voice took Ryan aback. He wasn't expecting anything gentle or paternal to come out of the man's mouth. "How's your mom doing?"

Shrugging his shoulders, Ryan tightened his defenses. This was the man who had hit him hard enough to knock out two of his teeth when he was twelve. This was the man that told him it would have been worth the cost of an abortion to keep him from ever being born. This was the man who had said he hoped child services would just come and take Ryan away, so he would never have to look at his pitiful face again. But he was the only one who could answer the plethora of questions rattling around inside his son's head. "I haven't seen her."

Leaning forward, his father's eyes softened further. "You get taken away?" Ryan flinched at the question. "Look, Ry, I said and did a lot of things to you when you were growing up. This," he tapped the paper before him, "was just to let you know that I get that now. I never expected you to accept it."

The two sat, watching each other, for what felt like an eternity. The letter said that he had found an inner peace in prison, that he had asked forgiveness for all of the awful things he had done in his life. And it said that he was sorry for being a piss-poor father for the twelve years he had been in Ryan's life. Over the years, whenever Ryan was losing faith in humanity as a whole, he would pull out that letter, read it over and over again, and try to believe that someone in the world recognized him for who he was.

He didn't know how this worked, how to ask his questions, but words were tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them, tripping over each other to be heard. He spilled everything about stealing a car with Trey, getting arrested, being kicked out of the house, moving in with the Cohens, getting abandoned by his mom a second time, living the good life, and taking care of Kirsten. By the time he finished the recap, he and his father were both fighting tears.

He felt like a fool for sounding so weak and whiney, but he also knew he had needed to unburden his soul to someone who might actually give a damn, and stand a chance of understand where he was coming from. "I don't know why I told you all of this," he said finally. He stared at the table.

"Ry," his father's voice was calm and steady. The sheer fact that he wasn't screaming in disgust and anger, slurring his words together, made him seem foreign to Ryan. But comforting, at the same time. They would never be Seth and Sandy, but he didn't hate the man. He never had, not really. He hadn't known him well enough to hate him. "It's not your fault."

He nodded and cleared his throat, risking a look into his father's piercing eyes. They were confident and clear. "I know," he mumbled.

"If you knew it, you wouldn't be here," his father smiled.

With a slight sigh, Ryan stopped trying to defend his actions. He couldn't. He could swear up and down that none of them understood him, none of them knew what it was like for him, but they all knew. They all knew exactly what he was trying to do, and they had all warned him. They had tried to save him, and he had pushed them away. He couldn't do that anymore.

"This isn't advice from your dad." They both leaned back in their chairs. "Just words of wisdom from an addict, okay?"

With a slight nod of concession, Ryan opened his mind and he listened. Really listened. For the first time in his life. "Okay."

His father cleared his throat and looked as though he were collecting his thoughts. "I don't know Mrs. Cohen, but I knew your mom. And me. And I know that our problems, both of us, started long before you ever came along. We didn't start drinking, or snorting coke, or shooting heroine, or robbing liquor stores, or assaulting people because of you or your brother. We were those people long before we ever thought of bringing you guys into the world.

"All we wanted for you guys was more than we were. We wanted you and Trey to be better people than we were. We wanted you guys to have more and be more and save you from all this bull shit that we knew." He shook his head and took a deep breath. "Don't think we didn't try. Your mom did, anyway. She tried to kick her habits for Trey, when he was born, and then again for you."

Ryan didn't want to hear that his parents loved him. He didn't want to hear that people who loved him could hurt him like they had. He wanted to believe that they were selfish assholes that wanted their substances more than they wanted their sons. And he wanted to say something, but his mind was blank. He literally didn't know what to say, or how he was supposed to feel. Was knowing they tried supposed to make him forget everything else? Was it supposed to make everything better? Because he didn't feel better.

"You tried to help your mom, right? And again with this new lady?" Ryan nodded. "They know that. But all you're really doing is perpetuating the cycle, Son. I know. Trey used to do it for me. Ya see," he leaned forward again, using his hands to accentuate his point, "we know you're trying to be a good kid, trying to help us out. But we also know that we're supposed to be the parents. We're the ones who are supposed to take care of you. And the fact that you're doing our job only makes us feel more guilty."

Ryan's mind was numb, so much so that he couldn't force any words out of the back of his throat. All the times he had tried to do the right thing, he was only shoving them further into their hole. What if he had ruined them beyond repair? What if they were too far gone because of him? What if it was all his fault?

His father nodded as the guard came to give him the "wrap it up" warning. "I don't know your new mom, Ry, but I'm sure she feels like it's her responsibility to take care of you. Just show her that she doesn't have to." He stood as the guard approached again. "Let her know that the only person she has to worry about is herself, and then let her do what she will with that."

Suddenly, Ryan wanted to ask a million questions, to make up for a lifetime of silence. "What if she doesn't do anything with it?" he spat.

With a shrug, his father pushed the chair in. "You can't pick her up until hits the ground, Ry," he nodded, offering another small smile and a wave as the guard placed a hand on his shoulder to lead him back to his cell.

Once his father was out of sight, Ryan stood and moved toward the door. After signing out, he walked slowly toward Sandy's car. His head felt clear for the first time in months. And though he couldn't really find any joy in the answers he had received, there was a comfort in knowing what he now knew.

Climbing into the front seat of the car, he met Sandy's nervous eyes with a small smile. Before they got back to Newport, he would ask to move in with the Cohen men. But for now, he just wanted to think about his mom, about Kirsten, and about himself. His father had given him a shit load of things he didn't need over the years – black eyes, broken bones, bruises, and nightmares. But in the last hour, the man had given Ryan the one thing he had always searched for – permission to walk away, absolved of the guilt and stress of saving anyone but himself.


End file.
